


by which they chain me

by Kangoo



Series: but first they must catch you [3]
Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Gilded Cage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-10
Updated: 2019-08-10
Packaged: 2020-08-14 10:35:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20190874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kangoo/pseuds/Kangoo
Summary: 'What's that?' he cries. 'O, nothing but a speck.''A speck?' 'Ay, ay; 'tis not enough to pain me;Perhaps the collar's mark by which they chain me.'— La Fontaine, The wolf and the dog





	by which they chain me

**Author's Note:**

> i'm gonna hurt my child SO MUCH just you wait

Darkness is but a whisper at the edge of the system, Light a comforting hum in the background of their consciousness, and both are drowned out by death, resounding like the toll of bells or the roars of the Thralls roaming the corridors of the Menagerie.

Their sniper rifle is heavy in their hands, their shoulder bruised from the recoil of too many shots. Everything hurts, that terrifying pain of the hunt. A kind of full-body ache, burrowing in their bones. Legs heavy from running, arms burning from the climb, chest tight from an ever-beating heart — but too hard, too fast, too afraid. Adrenaline high they never come back down from.

It’s a prey kind of pain.

They push it aside. Breath in; ribs pushing against skin as lungs expend; breath out; _you’re alive, you’re alive, you’re alive_. Their finger curl around the trigger as they aim down, watching the Ogre through their scope. Breath in, hold it. Ready, aim—

Fire.

The bullet goes right through the Ogre’s head, enough power behind it to blow a hole the size of a large fist through its cursed flesh. Its fall shakes the ground, hard enough they wonder how the ship hasn’t been knocked out of orbit yet. But it’s far, far bigger than them, than an Ogre. Bigger than all of them.

They wait with bated breath. The faraway roars do not approach; the way is clear, for now at least.

Occam does not wait for it to be blocked again. They sling their rifle onto their shoulder, careful to keep its length aligned with their body so as to not be hindered by it while they climb down their perch. They give the Ogre’s corpse a wide berth and slink to the door it was guarding, mindful for traps.

This isn’t the part of the Menagerie most Guardians run. What they do is a kind of sport; entertaining but no more dangerous than the Crucible. The Emperor wouldn’t want to antagonize his ‘allies’. This is darker, bloodier. A place for prized pets to tear each other apart under the watchful eyes of His Majesty. The worthy survive; worthy to be _kept_, that is.

They walk through the door and push the urge to tug at their collar out of their mind. It’s an obvious tell, one they’d better lose soon. But they can feel the weight of the chain underneath it, cold no matter how long they wear it, seeming far heavier than it truly is. A different kind of collar. It glints gold and cold when they catch a glimpse of their reflection in passing, even through layers of fabric. A twist of their imagination, though no less true for it.

That night they eat with Calus. Their first real meal in days spent in hiding, staking out enemies and subsisting on field rations. They can only pick at their food, push it around the gilded plates with their fork, fingers still sore, still holding the shape of their rifle, like phantom pain. Calus praises them for their skill — he never seems to get bored of watching Guardians, not even the slow, careful one like them, the kind more afraid of his creatures than the beasts are of them. They try to convince themself they’re glad for it.

They don’t like to think of those other Guardians, running through the sprawling, labyrinthine corridors of the Menagerie, sure that their stay is temporary. Reckless Guardians courting death at every step. Mortal Guardians, no matter what they may think. Packs of them, starving for glory, for loot, for adventure, for the adrenaline of survival in the face of greater threats.

Yet they do. Not often, but sometimes. Think about the other Guardians, that is, in a distant, curious kind of way. Not envious. Not scornful. Just… curious. When they’re too tired to think about anything else. Too tired to worry about their room, too large to be watched, too foreign to be safe. Too tired to do anything but curl with their back to the headboard, because the bed is dead center of the room, too heavy to be pushed against a wall. Or in the time when they wait for Calus to hand them back their rifle and send them into the depths of the ship once again to earn their living, earn their right to live rather. Those empty empty hours they spend staring at the ceiling because there are far too many mirrors on the walls, gold-framed and beautiful, inhabited by the reflection of a room just as golden, just as beautiful, haunted by their shadow.

The pendant around their neck rests on the mattress. Calus’ heraldry — his _seal._ The spot where it usually rests on their skin, between their collarbones, seems to remain cold even without its touch. Never let it be said Calus is subtle in his threat, in his claims of ownership.

The door locks from outside.


End file.
